


Sunflare

by renaissancepalette



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: A tiny bit, Character Study, Gen, Marvel Norse Lore, Mythology - Freeform, References to Norse Religion & Lore, a little bit of, brunn goes through so much and i haven't seen anyone talk about it, i hope this does her justice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 01:53:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15831351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renaissancepalette/pseuds/renaissancepalette
Summary: The Valkyrie are immortal, teetering the pin-thin line of calm and dysfunctional, of lawless and virtuous, of life and death. They are the things of dreams, both holy and unjust.Among them, the warrior Brunnhilde is fire; she is blood, and she is light.And like an angel in an oil painting, she fell, surrounded by her army and comrades. Like a tragedy, her beloved fell for her. Then with blood beneath her fingernails and the metallic sting of dishonor in her gums and piercing her armor, the once lively angel roared towards the demon—who is green with envy and jealous and power.The demon, who was as deadly as she was beautiful, clipped the angel’s wings.





	Sunflare

She was born of the mist and Northern Lights shinning over Odin’s left shoulder. She has no mother, no father; she is but a member in her fleet, a number in an army of feathered wings and shimmering armor.

She’s of burning passion and frigid apathy. She has three commitments, two duties, but one goal: to guard, protect, and guide.

She is the Grim Reaper and a saint: she guides the dead to Valhalla and she brings hope to those skirting the line.

She is impenetrable, immortal, impeded—forever teetering the pin-thin line of calm and dysfunctional, of lawless and virtuous, of life and death.

She is the thing of dreams, both holy and unjust. She is fire, she is blood, and she is light.

And like an angel in an oil painting, she fell, surrounded by her army and comrades. Like a tragedy, her beloved fell for her. Then with blood beneath her fingernails and the metallic sting of dishonor in her gums and piercing her armor, the once lively angel roared towards the demon—who is green with envy and jealous and power. The demon, who was as deadly as she was beautiful, clipped the angel’s wings. Wounded her. Scarred her. The  _stench_  of dishonor and regret is burned into her skin alike her Valkyrie tattoo, it is burned into her soul.

And now she is unremarkable, unimportant, inglorious. She’s the dull, tattered ends of a once-beautifully woven tapestry, and she’s alone.

A damsel, she spends her days in a haze of forced bliss and her nights chasing away the echoes of dark memories, of faces she’s trying to forget. Trying to forget the feeling of a weapon’s handle against her palms, of the laughs and comforting touches of those who used to surround her, of the sight of death of her own, of her knees scabbed and fear’s talons around her heart, and her hands caked with dirt and blood, her tears making smudged tracks down her cheeks as she looks to the godless sky. Her All Father is silent. None of The Valkyrie survive.

At night she dreams they’re still alive; at night she visits them all in Valhalla and thinks about that cruel irony. Similarly, at night she sees the she-demon with eyes of swimming emerald with an incurable lust for murder.

But then the fallen angel meets a dirty man clumsily navigating the universe—fell from the Bifrost, he says; that he’s royalty, he claims; gives limp threats and deflating gusto. And she isn’t doing the right thing, she knows—capturing him, tasering him, selling him—but then, she doesn’t quite  _care_. Because here on this trash planet, it’s every fish either grows teeth and eats the other or be eaten themselves.

She isn’t good at doing anything  _right_  at all. She’s afraid of the word  _helpful_  and  _helpless_  and  _comfort_ , and outstretched hands mimicking kindness because it’s all a trap, all a ploy. And so, she intwines salt and insolence into her gut, too used to it all being a lie or never lasting.

She feels like she’s on borrowed time, living a life that she shouldn’t have been granted. This happens the most when she spies the light tattoo on her underarm.

“Oh my god…you’re  _a Valkyrie_ ,” she was accused with a star-studded gaze.

She works to put her old life behind and to start anew, to never look back any longer.

“ _Was_ ,” she corrects.

She meets a prince who acquires her help and his sneaky brother, and she  _refuses_. She runs, lies, avoids, exploits, and continues running, skirting around them, quietly waiting until their next tournament and one is dragged out as a corpse. She runs around their pleas until she doesn’t have a choice any longer.

The objective, they tell, is to return to the place of her origin and fight the monster waiting back there on the battlefield of her figurative death.

And she becomes seasick, becomes dizzy, and the intense fear causes her to lurch, sweat, sucker-punches all those around her, illusion gods and overgrown green men alike. But oddly, she’s able to run away and the armored women in the halls of Valhalla tell her to trust the royals; they tell her that the she-demon lives, and that Brunn mustn’t run any longer. That all isn’t lost. Not now. Not yet.

And so she swallows her guts, her tears, and puts on a show of might and alarming bravery.

And so, with the help of a muscular god, a trickster, and a giant berserker, Brunn walks back into the path of the monster who tore down her life, ripped it to shreds, and set it ablaze.

Brunn’s a mean girl, yes; she’s brash, hard, and unforgiving. She’s sly, conniving, cunning, and her uncertainties are worn on her sleeve, clumsily covered under a sloppily and sorrowfully applied guise. She isn’t shinning gold, no, but an unpolished gem—genuine, organic, and rough.

But if she loves you— _if she loves you_ —she will bleed herself dry, fight knowingly losing battles for your sake, and she’ll lie and comfort and do whatever she can.

_If she loves you—_  the chrysalis will break open and then that undusted jewel shines just a little brighter.

**Author's Note:**

> **PLEASE TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK OF THIS :)**


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